


Path of Thorns

by apotheouns



Category: Fire Emblem: If | Fire Emblem: Fates
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Betrayal, Character Study, F/M, Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-28
Updated: 2017-01-28
Packaged: 2018-09-20 09:20:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9484721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apotheouns/pseuds/apotheouns
Summary: Nohr is mired in darkness, but when Garon brings back with him a bright little spark, Xander feels his whole world tilt off its axis. He's already halfway through the fall before he realizes that she has become an intolerable weakness. And even the most innocuous beginnings can lead to the darkest of paths. AU.





	

 

 _“There are no happy endings._  
_Endings are the saddest part,_  
_So just give me a happy middle_  
_And a very happy start.”_

* * *

 

The first time he sees her, she is a small, pale dove hiding in the lee of his father’s tall shadow.

Garon returns to Castle Krakenburg triumphant, victory draped like a heavy fur mantle around his shoulders. His footfalls scrape loudly over the threshold, and the sound is harsh in the echoing stillness — a clap of thunder heralding the coming of a storm. Xander waits at the foot of the stairs. The steel in his spine forces him to remain tall and still beneath the weight of his father’s gaze, like chips of ice staring out from beneath an avalanching brow.

Xander is thirteen. A liminal space between being a boy and a man, some would say. He is old enough to remember a time when things had been different. When Father’s returns had been like the coming of a God’s. He remembers being swept up into his father’s arms, listening to him explain how his battles had been fought and won. Afterwards, he would always polish the stories into gleaming legends in his own mind, the way sons do their fathers.

That had been a very long time ago.

The memory shifts uneasily in Xander’s head, stirring from a deep sleep. It displaces a thick layer of dust, clouding his focus for a moment he can ill afford, before it is swiftly buried. The time for reminiscing has passed. He is old enough, now, to understand that some dark thing has crept into his father’s countenance, transforming him over the years into a stranger. He does not know what. He does not know why.

But he does know better.

Laughter is no longer a thing that echoes in Krakenburg’s somber halls.

More than diplomacy, more than history, more than even the sword, Xander has worked towards perfecting stillness. It has served him well in his dealings with his father — a statue reveals very little, after all. With rigid composure, Xander waits as King Garon draws closer, his expression remote. He breathes evenly, and keeps time in his head — his heart beats too quickly to be of any use as an accurate measure. He holds his head high, tilts his chin up, but his eyes track the progress of his father’s feet. It is a delicate balancing act.

He waits until King Garon is nearly upon him before he sweeps into a bow. He holds the position, the back of his neck prickling, until his father bids him, “Rise, my son.”

He does. When he looks up, he falters.

His father shifts his weight and the heavy fall of his cape parts to reveal a bright little shadow, hidden just behind his father’s knee. The tight rein that Xander holds over himself slips suddenly, jerking through his hands. His thoughts trip over themselves. What his father has just unearthed looks so unlike anything that has ever touched Nohr, he wonders how he could have ever failed to notice her until now.

Swiftly on the heels of that thought is the realization of how very _small_ she is. She looks younger than Camilla, but is certainly older than Leo, who Xander can still carry in his arms. But somehow, the impression of her slightness has little to do with her physical frame.

She is small, half-hidden behind the mountainous shape of his father. She is small, hiding beneath the unruly mane of her strange, pale hair. She is small, a bright pearl hidden at the heart of Krakenburg’s high, twisting spires.

She looks at him, then. It is so fleeting, Xander barely gets the impression of carmine eyes, but for no reason he can explain, his heart lodges in his throat.

Garon follows the direction of his gaze. He reaches down to grab the girl. Xander watches as his father’s hand completely manacles her arm. In his mind, he can hear the dry snapping of a twig being crushed underfoot and he bites down on the urge to take a step forward and reach for her.

The aborted motion becomes a necessary one when Garon slings her carelessly towards him. She catches herself on Xander’s outstretched hands, but save for a sharp little intake of breath she makes not a sound. Still, her fear betrays itself as her hands curl into tight little fists around his fingers. The strength of her grip surprises him.

Xander does not release her, does not step back, but he straightens and meets his father’s gaze. The moment is balanced on a knife’s edge; he cannot afford to show his uncertainty.

“Father, what do you command of me?” he asks. It is a show of initiative on one side of the coin, and a preemptive strike on the other. He does not know why, but the footing is precarious and he presses what little advantage he has.

Garon’s answering smile is lazy and indulgent. “She is a princess of Nohr,” his father decrees, answering some of Xander’s questions. So, she is the child of another mistress, then. But whose, to be introduced to court so late? And those eyes…

Xander’s own eyes flick down, studying her. Hers flash up to meet his for the briefest of moments before they skate away, hidden once more.

“Xander,” his father’s voice rings out. The unmistakeable tone of command puts steel in the line of his back. His gaze snaps up.

“Yes, Father,” he answers.

“I am entrusting the girl to you. Teach her her responsibilities as a princess of Nohr. Do not disappoint me.”

Xander does not need the warning. He never has. The threat of his father’s disappointment has always hung over his head like an executioner’s axe. “As you command, Father,” he answers with a bow.

When he straightens, his father’s smile is a sickle. There is a sharp, cruel twist to it as he adds, “Love her, Xander. Like you would a sister.”

The wording is odd, but he cannot put his finger on why. And he doesn’t dare to question King Garon, even with his strangely magnanimous mood. Perhaps _especially_ with his strangely magnanimous mood.

_Besides,_ he thinks and looks down; she stubbornly averts his eyes but the shyness of her gaze is so at odds with her tight little grip that he finds himself helplessly charmed. _Father has never given an order so easy to obey._

* * *

His first impression is that she’s a somber child.

After she spends the first day holed up in her new room, Xander amends that thought. She isn’t somber — she’s _scared._

No amount of coaxing or cajoling manages to sway her. Various servants try to tempt her with sweets that even Leo, despite all his petulant pride, sometimes condescends to being bribed with. But to no avail. She has managed to wedge herself between the bed and the wall, and clings to the bedpost as though sheer force of will alone can make her blend into the woodwork.

She watches people come in and out, wide eyes that dart ceaselessly around the room. She never makes a sound, and her expression reveals very little as to her thoughts. However, eventually her stubborn refusal to budge frays at the patience of one of the servants whose voice goes suddenly from saccharine sweet to sharp.

Xander looks over with narrowed eyes. He expects her to startle, to skitter back. She doesn’t. She holds herself rigidly, but her knuckles go white on the bedpost.

The command leaps off his tongue faster than the thought can form.

“Leave us,” he orders in steely tones. The servants exchange worried looks. The room swiftly empties.

He waits for the door to click shut before he allows his shoulders to relax and unclasps his hands from behind his back. He looks at her and catches her staring back, wide-eyed, before she quickly looks away.

He takes the moment to study her and takes his time doing it. Away from the dim, dour light of the main hall, Xander sees that her hair is a pale blonde so light that it borders on something between white and grey. And while she still refuses to look at him, the vivid red of her eyes is striking against her pale colouring.

At that precise moment, she glances at him, her face tilted towards the window. His breath catches. _Rubies caught in the sun._

She looks away and the spell breaks. Her unusual appearance births a hard seed of wary suspicion that he buries in the back of his mind. _It is nothing,_ he thinks. It _is_ nothing. It’s barely even a thought, born of a speck of dust, but…

He decides to bide his time on that matter.

For now, he watches her. He wonders what child could learn to be so wary, so young. Her face is carefully blank, but as he continues to study her in silence, something stubborn begins to emerge from her features. The jut of her lower lip makes an appearance in an expression that borders on stormy. While he reluctantly admits that the stony look of petulance looks somewhat cute on a child’s face, the severe expression would surely serve better as an adult. Her obstinacy amuses him, but her adamantine composure coaxes out something gentler that falls somewhere between admiration and compassion.

He’d been older than her when he learned through sheer necessity the importance of hiding his emotions, his _weaknesses_ from the world, and especially from his father. It had been a lesson hard learned, but his childish grief over a pet falcon’s snapped neck had been nothing compared to when Camilla was born; that was when he discovered, for the first time, what it felt like to have his heart beat outside his own body. It is not a lesson he would wish on anyone else.

He moves slowly and telegraphs his intent. He sees her eyes dart down to his feet, watching them the way he’d watched Garon’s, and his heart squeezes, compulsive and helpless.

He stops when her hands tense, a ship in sight of land. When he speaks he pitches his voice in a low, gentle cadence. “What’s your name?”

The area around her eyes go tight, but that is the only indication she gives that she heard him at all.

He tries again. “My name is Xander. I’m the Crown Prince of Nohr, but I’m also your older brother,” he offers. He pauses when he sees her twitch, but continues.

“You have an older sister as well, named Camilla. But don’t worry,” he assures her. “You’re not doomed to suffer under the tyranny of only older siblings. Leo is littler than you, so you have a baby brother as well. Though I doubt he’ll be very pleased,” he adds as an afterthought.

Xander speaks in conversational tones. This isn’t his area of expertise, but talking about his siblings loosens his tongue in a way nothing else can, and the tense set of her shoulders makes his heart ache. He slowly begins to try and set her at ease, spinning stories about their siblings, about how Camilla keeps vigil beside her wyvern egg, and the way Leo has already managed to put scorch marks into the upholstery with his tiny flames, and a hundred other little stories that he hopes will make her grow to love them as much as he does.

By the end of it, her shoulders sag and her eyes are drooping. Xander wonders how long was the journey; how far father wandered to retrieve her.

“You must be exhausted,” he tells her, and watches with some amusement as her spine snaps straight. She blinks herself awake and shoots him a suspicious look before remembering herself and turning her head pointedly away.

Xander resists the urge to sigh. “Why don’t you consider eating something, then going to sleep.”

Not so much as a twitch.

Now Xander really does sigh. He breathes through his nose and affects some sternness, folding his arms. He tries again. “Are you really not going to tell me your name?”

A muscle goes off in her jaw, and when it becomes clear she isn’t going to answer, Xander changes tacks. He employs a skill that comes naturally to all older siblings. He begins to goad.

“If you’re not going to tell me you name, I’ll have to think of something to call you,” he muses to himself thoughtfully. He deliberately doesn’t look at her.

“You’re a pale little thing. And quiet as the dead, besides. ‘Little Ghost’ might do,” he says.

Out of the corner of his eye he sees her stiffen, and he hides a smirk.

He folds his hands behind his back and paces to the window. He shakes his head ruefully. “But maybe your reticence is simply a byproduct of your stubbornness, rather than a quality you possess on your own. If that’s the case, wouldn’t ‘Little Ox’ be more appropriate?” he asks, pivoting lazily on his heel to face her.

Her expression darkens. Her mouth is twisted into a scowl of mighty displeasure. He notes that her knuckles are white against the bedpost — but not out of fear.

Xander cants his head towards her and gestures broadly. “If you object to any of my suggestions, I would be more than happy to call you by your name.” He pauses, then adds pointedly, “As soon as you tell me, of course.”

She holds herself still but slowly turns her head to glare at him. The look lances him right through, sends a jolt up his spine. She is angry with him, but it is at least something. It is more than the careful, unnatural blankness with which she had held herself. He is glad. She shouldn’t be afraid to be angry at him, to make her thoughts known.

Now that he’s unearthed a pressure point, he should keep pushing. Stoke the little flame of her temper into a cleansing fire. Fear deters, anger incites. It would be progress. The advantage is his.

But Xander is patient. As well as a soft touch, it seems.

He breaks away from the window and goes to her. He is the Crown Prince and bears the title proudly; his father is the only person in all of Nohr to whom he has to lower his head. Yet Xander finds that kneeling before this tiny, little waif is the easiest thing he’s ever done. He goes to his knees and finds himself eye-level with her. Unlike before, she does not look away. Her gaze is piercing and defiant. Her chin tilts fractionally up, and the corner of Xander’s lip quirks. _Proud little princess,_ he thinks. _You will make a fine Princess of Nohr._

“It’s just as well you don’t approve,” he says gently. “Neither of those names are worthy of you.”

She blinks warily.

Xander regards her solemnly. “You are Nohrian royalty, and have conducted yourself with pride. Until you can trust me with your name, I will call you this—“

The name unfurls, sweet and fragile on his tongue. It falls, like a single spark of light plummeting through the darkness. He lays it at her feet like an offering.

“—Little Princess. I will call you Little Princess.”

* * *

“We have a _sister?_ ”

The way Camilla clasps her hands together reminds Xander of a child, giddy on sugar. His better sense prevents him from actually telling her so.

Instead, Xander glances at her and arches a brow. A smirk threatens his air of casual disinterest. He fights it down. He looks away, glancing over to where Leo sits in a patch of sun. Propped open in his lap is an old tome, nearly as wide as he is tall.

“We do,” he answers eventually.

The sound Camilla makes is barely within the auditory range discernible to humans. He wonders if she can one day hone that ability and use it summon war hounds in combat.

“A sister! What’s she like? Can I meet her?”

The question wipes the smile from Xander’s face. The truthful answer is that he doesn’t have a clue, really. The thought of her conjures only vivid snatches of colour, and the impression of a quiet surface of a lake with riptides churning underneath.

“She is… quiet,” he settles for, after a long moment of silence, aware of how woefully inadequate his answer is. Then, “And no, you can’t. Not yet at least.”

“Why can’t I?” Camilla pouts. That expression has won her many an argument, but never against him. Perhaps because he knows how contrived it is, a result of hours of practice in front of a mirror.

Xander remains resolute. “Father introduced her to court only just yesterday. I don’t want to overwhelm her.” It is a testament to his complete trust in his sister that he, still somewhat reluctantly, admits, “And to be frank, she hasn’t even told me her name.”

Camilla looks appalled. “You haven’t even managed to get her to tell you her name?”

Xander resists the urge to grind his teeth together. “It’s a work in progress.”

Camilla leans toward him eagerly. “Just give me one hour with her,” she wheedles. “I’m better at this than you. She’ll feel more comfortable with me.”

Xander is woefully out of his depth where that girl is concerned and he knows it, but irritation still pricks at him at the prospect. “No.”

His sister’s contrived pout gives way to annoyance. “You’re just afraid that if you let me meet her, she’ll like me better than you,” she accuses. She crosses her arms beneath her chest. There is a no small amount of danger in this gesture. Xander wonders how many suitors he’ll have to fend off in the future. Or how many suitors he’ll have to defend _from_ her. He feels the beginnings of a headache bloom just behind his eyes and bites back a sigh.

“One week,” he says brusquely, deciding not to address her statement directly, or acknowledge the lick of displeasure he feels that she might be right. “Give her one week to adjust, and I will introduce her to both you and Leo.”

Camilla is barely mollified. “I bet you _still_ won’t know her name by then,” she sneers.

“We’ll see,” he replies neutrally.

* * *

He thinks about what he’d told Camilla.

A week had been a generous estimation. At this rate, he’ll be lucky if it takes a _month._

He’s loathe to admit it, but Camilla had been right. Xander is many things, but gifted at eliciting the confidences of reluctant children he is not. He’s the Crown Prince. One day, Nohr will be his. His role requires a degree of charisma, certainly, but it is rooted in the ability to _command,_ not to coax. None of his abilities lend themselves particularly well to his attempt to put at ease a single, tiny girl.

He’d learned the art of war at his father’s knee, after all. The question of whether it is better to be loved or feared has never even been a question at all.

The second day passes in much the same manner as the first. Xander remains unable to coax even a single word out of her. The only thing that changes is that she no longer avoids his eyes. In fact, she does the very opposite. She never takes them off him.

The weight of her red-tinted gaze is an unexpectedly heavy thing. Xander hesitates to count it as a sign of progress — he can’t shake the feeling that she sees more than she lets on. It makes him stand taller, shoulders broadening. He feels uncharacteristically self-conscious in face of her silent judgment.

* * *

On the third day, the clothes Xander commissioned for her are complete. The ones she’d arrived in had been loose fitting, almost make-shift, and once again Xander wonders at her origins.

When Xander had first summoned the seamstress, she had piled into the room with her assistants; upon seeing the girl standing uncertainly in front of the mirror, they’d immediately begun to crowd around her, cooing.

His hands had automatically tensed behind his back. He’d taken one look at her and then, without thinking, ordered, “No measurements.”

They’d stopped in their tracks and blinked at him. “Your Highness—“

“No measurements,” he’d said again, tone brooking no arguments. “She is only a little bigger than Prince Leo. Your best estimate will do.”

The looks they’d exchanged were uncertain, almost scandalized. Nohr has always been harsh and exacting. His kingdom, in all her barren beauty, deals only in extremes. She is not forgiving of estimations. They are uncertainties. Weaknesses.

Despite their reservations, the results of their best estimate ends up being quite good. They had suggested forgoing the traditional, austere colours of Nohrian royalty in favour of silver, white and deep blue. Black, he’d been informed, would be too harsh for someone of her fair colouring.

Xander waits until she steps out from behind the privacy screen, dressed in her new finery. She moves stiffly in her new clothing, as though unused to the tight laces and stiff boning that make up most of Nohrian fashion.

She doesn’t spare him a glance as she steps past him. She comes to a stop in front of the tall mirror. She studies her reflection.

Surprise is a sudden crack in her fine porcelain mask. Her gaze sweeps from her booted feet, to the thick brocade lining her waist, before finally catching on the royal crest emblazoned on her chest. Her body stiffens. Her expression goes hard edged and bleak.

Xander studies her carefully, but cannot guess at the direction of her thoughts. Her eyes are like mirrors turned inward.

Troubled, Xander comes to a stop behind her, looking at her through the mirror. Her eyes still linger on the Nohrian crest. “Little Princess,” he says slowly. She will not look at him. “If there’s anything that’s not to your liking, it can always be altered.”

She finally lifts her eyes to meet his through their reflection. The shrewdness of her expression surprises him — she has the look of someone carefully weighing the merits against the cost, tallying numbers from one column to another. After a long moment, she looks away, staring again at the royal crest.

Xander’s stomach sinks. The seed he’d buried in the back of his mind grows. It begins to sprout thorns.

He prepares himself for her request. He suspects he knows what it will be, even though he can’t for the life of him fathom _why._ Or how he will explain himself to Father. But he has made a promise.

She takes a deep breath. Xander braces himself, hands tensing behind his back. Her mouth parts briefly, and she shoots him one long look before she seemingly sweeps into a bow.

Xander stares.

A strange, ceremonial grace slips into her movements as she bends over to unlace her boots. Her fingers tug and hook through the loops until they come undone. Then, primly, she straightens and steps neatly out of them. She bends down to line them up neatly together, before taking a single, pointed step away.

She turns around and looks at him. Her expression is expectant. She needs no words.

A wry smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. A concession for a concession. “Very well, Little Princess.”

Xander commissions her slippers.

From that day onward, her feet fall as soft and quiet as a hind’s. She becomes his silent shadow, never more than a half-step behind.

* * *

Still, her silence remains impenetrable. It holds steadfast as a fortress. If Xander were a brute, he’d storm the gates with a battering ram. If he were clever ( _heartless_ ), he’d maneuver her into a war of attrition. But Xander is neither of those things.

Xander doesn’t want to lay siege to her defences. He doesn’t want to come to her gates, a king and a conqueror. He wants to barter for free passage with kindness and patience. He wants, so desperately, to give her _time._

In the end, his wishes amount to nothing.

King Garon looms large.

That night, a storm annexes the citadel, smothering it in a dense fog. The air becomes electric, thick with the smell of ozone. Overhead, the clouds churn ominously, bellies bloated with the threat of a deluge. The storm has not yet broken, and perhaps that is worse. It covers Krakenburg in an eerie silence. A hush falls over the citadel. All of its denizens collectively hold their breath and wait.

Xander paces the length of the library, tense and agitated. He has learned to read the mood of the castle, has become attuned to its thrumming pulse. Tonight, it is like a frightened animal’s. The past few days has seen it suffused by a creeping fear that coils around his throat like a snake.

Xander knows the cause. Just as he knows his father. The signs that play harbinger to Garon’s dark moods are about as subtle as a brutal slaughter.

Father is unstable, even on the best of days. Xander has learned to expect that. But when Garon is consumed by his bouts of dark mania, he becomes unpredictable. _Dangerous._

Xander maintains an outward appearance of calm that he doesn’t feel. His hands are clasped tightly behind his back. His neck is tense, braced for an axe that has yet to fall.

He paces. He does not know for how long before he hears Camilla sigh. “Brother, you’ll wear tread marks into the rug. Come sit with us.”

Xander says nothing. He exhales sharply through his nose.

“It might be nothing, this time,” she says gently, but Xander can hear the wavering note in her voice. A lie. A white lie. For his benefit or her own, Xander does not know.

He glances over. Camilla sits in an armchair by the fireplace. Leo rests, uncharacteristically docile, in the circle of her arms. His face is tired and wan. He is young still, but so very clever. Most days, it makes Xander proud. Now, he only wishes his brother were not so sharp as to be able to pick up on the dark currents running through the castle.

Xander looks at them and thinks of the fortress in the icy lands to the north that had recently been taken; it had been nearly impenetrable save for one small, but devastating vulnerability that, once exploited, had led to their defeat.

_—blind spots and bared necks and soft, unarmored bellies—_

“We don’t know that,” he says quietly, and resumes his pacing, between them and the door.

As though the very thought had invited evil, the doors open.

Iago, his father’s pet snake, scrapes into a bow. It is almost mocking for how low it is. “His Majesty, King Garon requires the presence of his royal children in the throne room,” he announces in sibilant tones.

Xander feels a tick go off in his jaw. He searches his father’s adviser for any small sign of impudence. There isn’t any. There never is. Although Iago seems determined to spend his life crawling on his stomach, Xander can’t quite accuse him of stupidity. The reigns of power are clenched in his father’s hands. For now. They both understand the nature of power.

He doesn’t bother to dignify Iago with a response. Instead, he glances over his shoulder. Camilla sits, sharp-eyed and alert, and Xander knows there is no safer place for Leo than right where he is. He gives her a nod and watches as they both slip to their feet, making for the door. He waits a beat after they leave before brushing wordlessly past his father’s adviser.

After a carefully calculated pause, Iago’s voice trails after him. “King Garon requires the presence of _all_ his royal children.”

For a terrible moment, Xander’s heart freezes solid in his chest. He is plummeted into an icy lake of pure, unadulterated _fear._ The cold snaps the breath from his chest — for a moment, his mind is a blank canvas of white—

— _and red_ —

Hanging onto his composure by the very tips of his fingernails, Xander forcibly drags his mind back into his body. It is bad enough that he is rattled, but Iago cannot know, can _never_ know.

He glances at Iago over his shoulder, expression cold and bored. “Very well,” he says curtly.

“I would not suggest tarrying, Prince Xander,” Iago advises with a benign smile. “His Majesty hates to wait.”

Xander grinds his teeth together and forces himself to walk away. His pace is unhurried, in defiance of Iago’s words, but when he rounds the corner it takes all of him not to break out into a run.

Still, when he reaches her room he is slightly breathless. His heart pounds helplessly at his throat. Xander pauses before entering, marshalling the remnants of his composure. He closes his eyes and breathes in an attempt to find some measure of calm. Before they leave here, he _has_ to succeed in impressing upon her the seriousness of the situation. He must. But all the same, he doesn’t want to alarm her.

He cannot afford to wait long. When he pushes unceremoniously into her room, she jumps in surprise. She is seated by the window, reading by candlelight. The flickering flame bathes her in a wavering column of gold. He glances down. To his surprise, the book in her hands is one of his. A treatise on the precise geography of Nohr.

His gaze flicks up. Her expression reveals nothing to him.

Xander sets his jaw and strides to her with barely masked urgency. He kneels in front of her, hand moving to gently tug the book from her grasp and set it aside. She lets it go without a fuss, never looking away from him.

“Little Princess, you must listen to me very carefully,” he says slowly, gently, and underneath that a steely wire of tension stretches taut.

Immediately, her eyes sharpen. She looks at him warily.

“Father wishes to see us—“ Her expression flickers “—our presence is required in the throne room. While you are there, you _must not_ speak.”

Xander is aware of the irony in asking her to remain silent when he has spent the better part of the past week trying to coax even a single word from her. But the situation is dire. It is too soon, he thinks. It is far too soon. The girl does not know how to navigate Garon in his dark moods. The footing is treacherous. All paths except one lie danger, and he is about to send her into something he has not adequately prepared her for.

Her hands have balled into fists, are trembling in her lap, for all that her expression does not even shift. Xander wraps his hands around them. They still beneath his.

“You need to be very careful, but you do not need to be frightened,” he says, gentling his severe tone somewhat. “I will protect you. Stay close to me. I’ll speak to Father on your behalf.”

She does not nod. Instead, she looks at him, and he looks back. They breathe into the stillness until they are ready.

* * *

The throne room is a massive, intimidating affair. The high-vaulted ceiling tends to set even the slightest whispers echoing; twisted, thorny metal spires arc above and around the throne in a spidery threat display. The distance between the doors and the throne seems unending, and walking it erodes his mental defences. It feels like walking to the gallows, every time.

Father sits like a dark mountain at the end of the long walk. At the foot of the dais, Camilla and Leo wait to one side, while his father’s advisers are gathered at the other.

Xander breathes deeply and sheds all the extraneous layers of himself. With every step he takes he leaves behind his patience, his kindness, and his love for his siblings, until he is nothing more than the naked edge of a blade, shining and lethal. He narrows his focus on his father’s form, and his vision tunnels, fixating on the danger. Only one thing gentles him: the dim awareness of a bright shadow, trailing just behind.

Three steps to close the gap. Two. One. And then—

Xander sweeps into a bow. Behind him, he feels her do the same, just like he’d taught.

“Your Majesty, I offer my sincerest apologies for our tardiness,” he says in stiff, formal tones.

Xander feels Garon’s gaze rest upon him like a stone before it shifts to the girl. There is a pause that stretches into an uncomfortably long moment and Xander tenses, braced for something he does not know.

Then, in gracious tones, father says, “By all means, my son. Rise.”

Xander does. He should feel relieved at being so summarily dismissed, but the tightness in his chest does not abate. He goes to stand next to Camilla and Leo; from the corner of his eye, he sees them peer curiously at the girl, half hidden behind him.

When the first of Father’s advisers begin to give their reports, Xander dares to let himself hope for the possibility that nothing will go amiss. Garon listens with a chin propped in one massive hand, and exudes an air of lazy indulgence. Crops are apparently being harvested on schedule, and will sustain their forces through the winter; the campaign in the North goes well, and with each day their soldiers creep steadily closer to the Capitol. Their audience progresses as smoothly as Xander can hope for; Garon commends their efforts in the same indifferent tones he uses to condemn people to death.

Yet, when the treasurer approaches with a noticeably nervous air and Father’s eyes sharpen, Xander realizes that Garon had only been waiting for an opportunity to present itself. A part of him is relieved. He shudders to think what might have happened if Garon had had to _create_ an opportunity.

“Your Majesty,” Father’s treasurer greets with a grovelling flourish that makes Xander’s hackles rise. “The royal emissaries have finished collecting tithes from all the villages.” The nervous tic beneath his left eye gives him away, and he apparently decides that the truth might be marginally less damning than being caught in a lie. Xander pities him his misplaced optimism. “Except for the small matter of Calcherth, Your Majesty,” he adds quickly and sweeps into another low bow.

Father’s silences have always had the quality of knives being sharpened. When finally he speaks, his voice is deceptively soft, “And for what reason have you shirked your duties?”

The entire room collectively holds its breath.

The treasurer has, wisely, still not raised his head. “Your Majesty, Calcherth is a village that borders the Ice Tribe; it’s repeatedly been subject to attacks by bandits and Northern raiders. They’ve begged for an extension of one week and will bring what they owe here, to you, Your Majesty.”

No one dares to so much as shift their weight. Malevolence has crept into the room like a dark serpent, winding around and compressing against Xander’s lungs.

Garon begins to tap one finger against the throne. “And who authorized you to make such a decision?”

“Your Majesty,” the treasurer stammers.

“You think these pathetic excuses justify showing such leniency?” Father’s voice is laced with dark menace. “A week’s extension will turn into two, then three, until all of Nohr will wonder why they should bother to pay tithes at all. DO YOU THINK ME A _FOOL_?”

The dark velvet of Father’s voice rises into a thunderous shout mid-sentence, punctuated by the hammer-strike of his fist slamming into the arm of the throne. Xander feels Camilla jolt, sees Leo flinch, but behind him, his little shadow merely fists a hand into his cape.

Father’s fury shatters the room’s tense silence. The treasurer immediately drops to his knees and prostrates himself. “Your Majesty, this humble servant begs for your forgiveness! I had only meant to show the people of Nohr evidence of your boundless mercy—“

_Fool,_ Xander thinks. In Nohr, mercy is tantamount to weakness. The treasurer has just signed his own death warrant.

“Mercy?” Father asks, the cruelty in his voice whittling his amusement into a razor’s edge.

The treasurer stills. Xander wonders if he realizes the enormity of his mistake. He closes his eyes briefly, wishing he could spare the girl behind him the sight of what is to come.

When the unfortunate man speaks, his voice trembles. “Your Majesty, I never meant to presume—“

“But you do, don’t you?” Father speaks over him. “There is no end to your presumption, is there? You _presume_ to know me. You _presume_ to make decisions of state on my behalf. You presume that I am _weak._ ”

The man finally lifts his head. A mess of tears streak his face. Desperation leads him to scramble up the dais on all fours, hands clutching at the hem of Garon’s cape.

“Your Majesty, I would never!” He cries out, voice breaking on a sob. “Please forgive me! I will right my wrongs! I will set out on horseback this very instant and retrieve what you are so rightly owed! Spare me!”

Disgust curls his father’s lip, but he smooths his expression into a caricature of disappointment and paternal concern. “Do you know what you are?” Garon asks gently.

The treasurer trembles mutely.

“You are a traitor,” Garon continues. Father considers him for a moment and heaves a regretful sigh. Then, his gaze slices towards Xander. No, not him, towards—

“And in Nohr, there is no forgiveness for traitors,” Garon finishes, with the cold, heavy finality of death.

Xander gives not one whit about the appearance of strength then; he steps fully in front of the girl, blocking her view of Garon, who reaches out to crush the man’s windpipe with a single hand. His heart hammers in his chest. He fights to keep his features a rigid mask of indifference, but all he can think is that the sounds are _horrible,_ are perhaps worse for not being able to see what is happening. A high keening scream breaks off into wet gurgles, bones splinter and snap, muscle and sinew are crushed with a gristly squelch, and then finally, a death rattle.

Xander stares unflinchingly ahead.

There is a thud as Garon tosses the body aside. “Remove that,” he orders coldly, and the guards stationed around the throne scramble to obey.

The only sound that permeates the silence in the room is the unbroken scrape of the treasurer’s boots as his body is dragged away. Xander stares at the streak of blood on the floor.

Father claps his hands once. “Well, now that that bit of unpleasantness is over with,” he says, almost perversely cheerful. Then, his gaze swings over to pin them flat. “Children, report.”

They are all shaken, as Father no doubt intended. But there is no room for hesitation. Xander subtly disentangles himself from the girl’s grasp, and to his relief she does not cling. He lifts his chin and leads, and his siblings follow.

His voice is level as he dutifully recounts everything he has learned that week. One of the only aspects that remains unchanged in Father is his insistence on their being properly educated. There are days when Xander wonders if this is only one more thing for Father to hold over their heads, or if some part of him is still lucid enough to care. But what used to be a stern, guiding hand has now become a slaver’s whip at their backs.

After him is Camilla, who keeps her eyes trained somewhere beyond Garon’s shoulder. Even Leo steps forward, his expression appropriately nonchalant. His young age gives him some leeway with Father, but Xander is painfully aware that even this is a dwindling currency.

Finally, inevitably, Father’s gaze lands on the girl.

She is no longer half-hidden behind him. She stands, straight and tall and shining beneath Garon’s regard. The tilt of her chin is uncowed, bordering very nearly on defiance.

Xander has never felt so afraid. Mile upon square mile of ice lie between him and the girl; when he so much as moves to take a step toward her, fissures spider out beneath him, the cracks resounding like thunder.

Garon raises an expectant brow. “Well?”

She stiffens. Her mouth presses into a thin, bloodless seam.

Xander immediately goes to one knee. “Father, I have neglected my duties.” _Forgive me,_ he does not say. There is no use.

Father’s gaze leaves the girl, and Xander breathes an inaudible sigh of relief.

“Oh?” Father inquires, idle and ominous.

“I prioritized my lessons and my swordwork. I barely saw the girl, and left her in solitude for most of the week. The responsibility is entirely mine,” Xander states in a voice like iron.

In the sea of Garon’s sprawling silence, a tiny breath hitches behind him.

“And for what reason have you shirked your duties?” The question is a trap that Father does not even bother to hide.

His siblings tense behind him.

Xander shakes his head once. “I make no excuses.”

Failure is unacceptable to Father, but Xander knows that more than that, Garon _despises_ weakness. This is not a mistake Xander would have ever blundered into.

Xander waits. Counts his heartbeats until they begin to blur together.

Finally, Father says, “Come here.”

Xander rises steadily to his feet and ascends the dais, coming to a stop one step below the last. He keeps his eyes trained carefully down.

The blow comes so quick Xander feels the bruising force of it impact his cheek before he even realizes it’s happening. Father’s backhand wrenches his head to one side. His teeth click together. Xander tastes blood and realizes they must have cut the inside of his mouth. Xander breathes evenly and focuses on the hot throb of his cheek.

Behind him there is a quick shuffle of feet, and a smothered noise of protest. He does not know which one of them has moved, but he can barely stop himself from snapping out, _Keep silent!_

Slowly, he turns his head back towards his father, his eyes following after. “I have failed you,” he says in deadened tones. “I will do better, Father.”

The dark fury in Garon’s eyes hardly seems to fit the situation, but Xander cannot seem to bring himself to feel indignant, even inwardly, or care. He has retreated to some dark and quiet place inside himself.

“You are the Crown Prince, Xander. Such empty promises do not become you,” Garon spits, coldly furious. “I expected better.”

Father raises his hand again, and this time he lets Xander see it. Dread is the insult to the injury of promised pain. Xander closes his eyes and resigns himself. This is nothing, _nothing_ compared to the alternative. Xander would weather a thousand blows if it means keeping Father’s attention focused solely on him.

Before the blow can land, a voice rings out, clear as a bell. It strikes at the heart of him like an arrow.

“Prince Xander,” comes that voice, “is too humble.”

Xander’s eyes snap open.

He can feel rather than hear the soft sounds of her footsteps. Slow, measured, she approaches the throne and ascends the dais until she draws even with him.

He can’t even keep up the pretence of indifference. He stares at her openly, despair and awe grappling for dominance inside him. She is furious and he sees it. She is incandescent with it, but has somehow sharpened it into a hidden blade that lurks in the edge of her placid smile.

With a desperation he had not felt just seconds before, Xander swings around to plead with Garon. “Father, please forgive her—“

Her voice is quiet, but it only takes the light touch of it to silence him. “Prince Xander has outfitted me in clothes befitting of my station,” she continues, not looking away from Garon. “He has also, so far, begun to educate me on Nohr’s rich history, as well as shown me maps of our great kingdom. It was only my slow wits that impeded his ability to teach.” Xander stares as she lays a hand over the Nohrian crest and bows. “Forgive me, Your Majesty.”

She waits a beat, then two, then rises of her own accord. Xander looks quickly at his father and is astonished to see only amusement and a sharp, narrow interest.

Serenely, she continues. But this time, her words come slower. Xander gets the impression that she is choosing them very carefully. “Whatever I was before, I now discard in order to embrace my duties as a princess of Nohr, and as your loyal daughter.” She pauses, then adds meaningfully, “Father.”

Perhaps only he can hear it. But the moment that she calls Garon ‘Father’ feels identical to when she’d decided to let the matter of the Nohrian crest lie.

_The seed grows, unfurls, and sprouts thorns._

But the small, insidious thought is easily banished in lieu of the immediate danger. Xander’s gaze darts between Father and the girl; the distance is wide enough that he should be able to intercede and shield her, should Father strike.

Today, his worries are not realized.

Her defiance is, unmistakably, that. But she has blended it with flattery, with grace, with such humble self-deprecation as to gentle the edges of her impudence. But truly, her saving grace is that she has amused.

Garon is capricious. He considers her with a long look as a smirk grows slowly on his face. “Very well, daughter,” he says, with the air of someone picking up an unfamiliar object between their forefinger and thumb. “I will show you leniency. Once.”

She inclines her head. “My father is gracious.”

“I trust you now understand the consequences of my… disappointment,” he murmurs. “Tread lightly, girl. I will be keeping a close eye on you.”

* * *

They are dismissed, and Father leaves without further incident.

Xander waits until the remaining advisers begin to file out before moving. They cast him speculative glances, before transferring their attention to the girl behind him, who has lapsed back into silence.

As they take their leave, Camilla and Leo linger by the doors. Leo will not lower himself to ask, but he plucks mutely at Camilla’s skirt, his lower lip jutting. Away from prying eyes, Camilla immediately scoops him up, where he tucks his face into the crook of her neck.

Xander cups a gentle hand over Leo’s head and looks at them both. “It’s been a long day. You must both be tired. Sleep. The danger has passed, for now.”

Camilla’s gaze flicks over his shoulders. “And you?”

Xander follows the direction of her gaze. His little shadow, his saviour, stands off to one side, not looking at any of them. “I must see her safely to bed.”

His sister nods. Without another word, she leaves. Xander watches until she rounds a corner, out of sight. He knows Leo will likely sleep in her room tonight. Knows that she herself will sleep very little, staying awake to ward off nightmares, both Leo’s and her own.

When Xander turns around to look at her, she is still refusing to look back. Like she had when she’d first arrived.

But Xander can see now that beneath that steely silence lies something fragile. Like she is holding onto the very edges of herself by desperate fistfuls. Like if she even breathes wrong, she will fall apart.

Xander leaves her be.

“Come, Little Princess,” he says instead, and leads her away.

The walk back to her room is utterly silent. His desperate instinct to protect has not yet realized that the danger is over, and clamours to keep her in his line of sight, but Xander averts his eyes and leaves her with her pride. He knows that same feeling well enough.

However, when they reach her room, Xander allows himself to fuss. He lights a candle and places it by the bed, thwarting the shadows. He arranges her pillows and then peels back the blankets. “There,” he says with satisfaction, and pats the bed invitingly.

He sees her swallow hard before climbing on. However, instead of crawling into the blankets, she merely sits on the edge, her feet dangling over the side. Her head tilts down, and her hair falls forward to hide her expression from him, shutting him out.

His heart aches. No matter what he has learned, what progress he’s made, these encounters with Father never fail to make him feel weak. _I cannot protect the things important to me._

“Are you still afraid?” He tries. “Do you need anything?”

He winces. They were stupid questions, and perhaps she thinks so too. She doesn’t reply.

He feels feeble and foolish. “If you need me—need _anything_ , I will be right down the hall. You need only ring the bell to summon the maids.” He then suddenly wonders how she will communicate her desires to them if she refuses to speak. “Or you can come yourself, anytime. My door will always be open to you, Little Princess.”

No answer.

There is nothing he can say, he realizes, to make this right. To banish her fears, no matter how much he wants to.

His heart feels like lead in his chest. With resignation, he turns away and bids her goodnight.

A tug on his cape halts him in his steps.

He pauses. Looks slowly over his shoulder. She has a corner of his cape in one tight fist.

He turns around. “Little Princess?”

She remains still and unspeaking for one long moment before she tilts her face up to him. What few defences left around his heart shatter when he sees that her eyes are glassy with unshed tears.

It takes no thought to yank one’s hand out of an open flame; it takes none for him to fall to his knees and fold her tiny form into his arms, pressing her face against his chest.

She is trembling, he realizes. With fear, perhaps, or with the effort of suppressed emotion. He smooths a hand down her back comfortingly and presses tighter, as though he can squeeze the grief out of her. “It’s alright. You’re allowed to cry, if you need to. You’re safe here,” he murmurs.

And like a dam, she breaks.

It starts slowly, at first. Like water welling up through dry, deadened cracks in the earth. But when the floodgates open, there is no closing them. Sobs wrack her form like monsoons, and they in turn batter at his inner defences. He steels himself, becomes the rock at which the waves of her grief break against; he murmurs soothing nonsense into her hair and smooths gentle circles into the small of her back. The moment stretches out into a small eternity. It is agonizing. But eventually, her sobs fade to hitched breaths, and then to the occasional sniffle.

When she has quieted, he pulls away slightly. Her carmine eyes are swollen, red-rimmed, but mercifully dry.

“Let me get you—“ He casts about desperately, “—a glass of water,” he says, and makes to stand, trying not to feel as though he is fleeing.

He jerks to a stop when she refuses to release him. He opens his mouth to say— _something,_ but the look in her eyes stop him.

She looks at him. _Looks_ at him. Searching his face for an indefinable something, she traces the topography of his features with such intense scrutiny that Xander feels suddenly, uncharacteristically shy and almost looks away. Her gaze lingers on the bruise he can feel forming on his face, and in response her eyes seem to harden for a moment, before crumpling. For a moment, he thinks her tears will threaten to make a reappearance.

Then, with agonizing gentleness, she reaches out to rest her hand against his cheek. It is small and cool, and draws away some of the throbbing heat from his face.

Xander forgets how to breathe.

Her touch is so careful. Like _she’s_ the one afraid that _he_ will break.

His hands flutter and fumble at his sides. He doesn’t know what to do with them. His pulse pounds, oddly quick, at his throat.

“Little Princess?” He asks, but it comes out as a hoarse whisper.

For the first time, he sees her smile. It is small, and resembles more a wounded tenderness, but it feels to him like the sun spilling out from behind the clouds.

Her hand drops, and she folds them both in her lap in a dainty triangle. Straight backed, she bows slightly, before looking him square in the eyes.

“My name,” she says, “is Corrin.”

**Author's Note:**

> Bruh, I have no idea what this is. I just know it's been rattling around my head for the better part of the year. Leave it to me to attempt something like this when the FE: Fates hype has died down, lmao. Could read as a standalone, may possibly add more. Cross posted to ff.net


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